That boy became a
desert storm,
hot dry air sucking
moisture from my lips.
He hangs around wind.
Orchids hear,
sunflowers
turn to the moon and
wrinkle their spines.
My legs grow stiff, my
earlobes ache and
heavy punches knock my
skeleton to unearth me.
Around me only is sand
to rain between my
fingers
and cacti
to pierce any fleshy
hug.
So I am a tumbleweed,
skidding and sliding
while you crack your lips,
oh smoky barreled gun.

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